A Mystery No More
by EragonArya
Summary: John Watson is a mess after the one and only Sherlock Holmes passes away. He settles on continuing his medical career instead of continuing detective work because it hurts too much. He wishes he could see his best friend again. But is it somehow opossible that the one thing he needs has been right in front of him the entire time? Takes place after Reichenbach. 3rd category: Romance


**This was the first time I've ever set my foot in the Sherlock fandom. Usually I only write Klaine, but for my bestie's birthday, I wrote her this. Hopefully I did the characters justice! It was paritally inspired by this tumblr post bbcsherlockftw . tumblr post / 16564355519/ pockytardis-radiolocked **

**Enjoy!**

**I do not own anything.**

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**A Mystery No More**

Ever since my best friend's death, I had been simply drifting through my days. My life without him was meaningless, empty. I had never realized just how much I needed him until he was gone. I craved for him more than I craved for oxygen. Many times throughout my years had I heard individuals say something along those lines. I always thought they were being dramatic, but in all honesty, they weren't.

As I watched him jump gracefully off the statuesque building, our relationship flashed before my eyes as he plummeted to his demise. I couldn't help but remember all the times we spent together. All the times I wanted nothing more than to punch those ridiculously mysterious cheekbones of his. All the times he played the violin while he dutifully tried to connect the clues to solve one of his cases. All the times I opened the fridge and found body parts. All the times he researched ridiculous things that meant nothing to anyone but him. All the times he crashed my dates. All the times we were able to solve a mystery. All the times I should have realized that I'd fallen in love with him.

But he was gone.

It wouldn't be his cheekbones I imagined punching when I was frustrated. It would only be recordings of violin music that I could listen to. There would be no more gruesome pieces of anatomy in our fridge. There would be no more ridiculous researching. There would be no one to crash my dates. The job of solving cases was left to me alone. It was a task that I would refuse to take.

I wouldn't ever again be able to watch him figure out someone's life story with a single glance. I would never be able to figure out just _how_ he could possess such a skill. I would never hear him laugh, or rant, or yell at Mrs. Hudson. I would never get to listen to him bicker with Anderson, or insult the police force's capabilities. I'd never again be able to eat dinner with him, and be asked if we were together. Even though we always declined, the question was always repeated. It was only now that I realized that there was some small part of me that wished I could answer in the affirmative. No one would ask now.

I missed him. I wanted nothing more for him to somehow be alive, even though it was an impossible wish. I was the one who saw him jump. I was the one who rushed to his body. I was the one who tried to revive him.

I was the one who confirmed him dead.

I was furious with him for leaving me, for refusing to listen to my please that he not jump. Why couldn't he have just taken the stairs down? Why did he have to jump? Why couldn't he have for once _listened _to me?

Anderson, who was in charge of the forensics, had found Moriarty's, or "Richard Brook's" remains on the rooftop. I knew something had occurred. I _knew_. But what... That was as much a mystery to me as the solar system was to him. Moriarty had to have said something. I knew my friend. He wouldn't do something like that unless it was for a good reason. At least that's what I was telling myself to keep from spontaneously burst into tears.

But people kept putting doubts in my head. Mrs. Hudson hardly ever stopped talking about how great minds were usually extremely depressed. She insisted we should have realized that he was no different. _But he was_. Donovan would hardly ever stop voicing her opinion; that he had killed Richard Brooks before proceeding to kill himself. _She was wrong_. Lestrade said we could never truly know what was going on in others' minds. That, I admitted, was true.

They all looked long and hard for a note, but none was found. I hadn't expected one. His phone call to me had been his note. That's what he had told me.

And I was the only one who knew about it.

It was hard enough calling 911 to tell them that someone had committed suicide. It was harder to tell them everything that I had witnessed. It was harder still to tell them that the victim was – _had_ been – my best friend. It was impossible to tell them about the phone call, the only note he'd left.

All that had been found, aside from Moriarty, was his cell phone. It was given to me after a couple of days of Molly searching through it for more evidence. None had been found which seemed out of character for my best friend. I hadn't realized just how much I was hoping for him to leave me more answers. After she gave me the phone, I put it in a box and hid it under his bed. It reminded me too much of him.

After my friend's parting, my life became boring, monotonous, unadventurous. The lack of mystery in my life removed any excitement from my day-to-day routine.

I had the opportunity to further my interest in detective work. Lestrade came by every few weeks or so. He visited more frequently immediately after my friend's death, then slowly coming less regularly. He would ask me how I was doing – never very well – and would always mention new cases he wouldn't mind my help with. Every visit I told him that yes, I was doing okay and no, that I was done solving mysteries. I knew if I said yes that it would remind me too much of him. Lestrade understood, or so it seemed. He never pushed me after I gave my answer. He came about every month or so now.

Instead of solving cases, I went back to my medical career. I took more hours at the clinic, going from part-time to full-time, even doing overtime work to get my mind off my best friend. It seemed that work was the only thing that worked. I gained many new patients. They all seemed to pity me. They had read the papers. They knew what had happened. Almost everyone who came in – appointment or walk-in – seemed to have one of six problems, making it incredibly easy to diagnose and cure the problem. There were few exceptions to the rule, but not many.

One of those exceptions – or many, I should say – was an elderly lady. The first time I treated her was my first day back at work, about three days after his death despite Mrs. Hudson's insistences to wait longer, that I needed more time to get over his death. But I was badly in need of a distraction, and work seemed like the best and only option at the time. The elderly lady, Heshmer Kolshol, seemed to have developed an infatuation for me. After treating a set of bruises on her long back occurring from being tripped by her pug, she returned to my office frequently, demanding treatment for even the smallest of injuries. More than once she came in so that I could check a scratch she got while gardening or a soreness in her arm after her pug pulled on its leash too hard.

Just over three months later, there was a knock on my flat door. Molly was on the other side with a couple bottles of wine. It was the first time I had seen her since the funeral. I didn't have the will to visit her at her workplace. It was where I had met him, after all. That night I downed my miseries in alcohol, revealing everything I had kept to myself, everything that was locked away in the deepest parts of my soul.

"An-An' he called me right before he jumped, y' know? I was run-runnin' to stop 'im but he-he hung up and jumped bef-ore I could tell 'im not to. I coulda stopped 'im. I coulda! But- But I didn't... It's my fault. I couldn' s-save 'im." My speech was slurred. It was almost impossible to understand me, but Molly, somehow, managed.

"It's not your fault," she told me, sipping her glass of wine. I couldn't remember whether or not she had refilled it. "You know how he gets – got. When he got something in that head of his, he didn't stop until it happened. It wasn't your fault, what he did. It was selfish, but I'm sure that there was a good reason for it."

"I jus'-just wanna see him again... I-I wanna know... know why he's such a jerk."

"Maybe he left something on his phone for you. I couldn't find anything, but you knew him better. Have you looked at it at all?"

"It was... was his. I can-can't look at it..."

I didn't remember much else from that evening. I wasn't too surprised by that fact. I was more surprised that I didn't need to get my stomach pumped with the amount of alcohol I consumed from both bottles of wine and the bottle of whiskey I had cooling in the fridge.

My first patient the next morning was Mrs. Kolshol. I was far too hungover to deal with her nonsense in my normal fashion.

"How are you this morning Mrs. Kolshol?" My voice sounded tired. Talking about my late friend so much while intoxicated the previous night had exhausted me.

"Someone looks like they had a fun night last night!" she said brightly, and far too loudly for my sensitive head.

"What's the problem this time?" I asked, not even trying to hide my aggravation. He would have commented on my impatient disposition. That is, if he was still with us.

"My, my," she said. "Did you have problems with a lady friend? Now the best thing to do is let her cool down for a couple days before you go and apologize-"

"I did not have problems with a lady friend."

"But you were with a lady friend, am I correct?"

"I am _not_ in a relationship with her! We are friends!"

"Well in that case, you should tell her how you feel-"

"She's my _friend_. That's all we're ever going to be!"

"Well there must be some lovely lady you have on hold."

"I don't want to discuss my personal life with you," I snapped. My head was pounding, but it was distracting me from him. "Now can you please explain what the problem is so that I can get to my other patients?"

"Well, you see I play the violin..."

He used to play the violin. He would have woken me up this morning to the sounds of his playing. He would have done it just to aggravate me, a punishment for letting myself lose control the previous night. He would have been playing with less skill than usual because he wasn't trying to figure out a case.

"I'm sorry, I blanked out for a moment," I said, realizing Mrs. Kolshol was explaining her dilemma. "Can you repeat that for me?"

"Distracted are we?" she said playfully. "As I was saying, I was playing my violin and my finger started to bleed. I just wanted you to make sure that it was okay."

"Just put a plaster on it and don't play your violin until it's healed. It'll be fine."

"I'd rather you look at it."

"Just do as I told you and it will be fine."

"I'd really feel better if you did. What if it gets infected?"

I let out a short, exacerbated sigh. "Fine. Show me."

Shuffling excitedly, she gave me her left hand, sticking out her index finger, not a mark upon it.

"Well, it looks like it's healed," I said distractedly. The hand seemed so familiar to me. I told myself it was because she came in so often, but there was something else prodding at the back of my mind. "It's perfectly fine. You can go back and play your... violin."

"Oh thank you!" she exclaimed. "It was lovely to see you doctor!"

"You as well Mrs. Kolshol."

More time passed. They said time healed the pain from loss. Whoever said that was wrong. Time made it worse.

I began to distance myself from people who once were close to me. They all seemed to be trying to replace my best friend, or trying to get me to talk about him. But they couldn't replace him, and talking about him hurt too much. Their efforts and conversations only painfully reminded me of the great man I knew. Aside from my patients the only conversations I had that weren't forced were with Molly and Mrs. Hudson.

I didn't visit with Molly very frequently. We were both busy with our careers, and it seemed that whenever we did see each other, there was far too much alcohol involved, at least in my case. It was as if she purposely got me drunk so that I would tell her everything that I'd been keeping to myself.

"I've started using a new lipstick," she commented one evening. We hadn't broken into the liquor quite yet, but it seemed as if we were heading in that direction quickly. "It's called Rosewine. Do you like it?"

"It looks like it belongs on an old woman," I answered truthfully. If she were trying to seduce me, my opinion would put her in her place. I couldn't love her. My heart belonged to someone that could never have it.

She looked offended, but for some reason the expression seemed off. I'd seen her offended before but that was never how she looked. I couldn't quite place what it was, but something was different. It looked faked, like she expected my answer. "I think it looked nice," she said. Her voice sounded odd as well. If he had been there, he would have had an explanation. But he wasn't, and I needed a drink.

"I brought a bottle of wine ready to be opened," I commented as her pug Charlie whined to go out into her tidy garden.

"The bottle opened is in the drawer is in the drawer beside the stove."

A week later, Mrs. Kolshol came into my office, claiming her throat was sore. As I looked into her mouth, I couldn't help but notice her lipstick. It looked like it had been put on quickly, getting onto her skin as much as it got onto her lips.

"Is that Rosewine you have on your lips?" I asked.

"You recognize it?" she asked, her eyes twinkling in delight.

"I have a friend who just started wearing it."

"Do you like it?"

"It... looks very mature," I answered. "It seems your throat is fine Mrs. Kolshol. It could just be allergies."

"It is that time of year again," she said. "Thank you, doctor."

I took the week before the anniversary of my best friend's death off. Mrs. Hudson had insisted I do so. According to her, I would not be able to perform up to my regular standard. I supposed that she was right. The only problem was, without work, my mind would not stop wandering to my late friend. I would never allow myself to think about him for long each day, but without the distraction of work, all my mind was fixated on was everything I loved about him. I couldn't get his long lashes, his bright eyes, his dark hair, his slender fingers... Everything about him was branded into my mind.

I didn't leave my apartment that week. I barely left my bed. I laid in it and stared at a blank space of wall. If Mrs. Hudson weren't there, I would have gone without food or drink as well.

The anniversary of that fateful day, I woke up out of breath with tears threatening to leak out of my eyes. I wasn't sure if my shortness of breath was cause of my nightmare of his jump or because it had been one year since I lost him.

Mrs. Hudson came in about ten minutes after I had woken up, demanding I get out of bed and join her for breakfast. Mechanically, I stood up and followed her into the kitchen. A large selection of food laid on the table. It included all of Sherlock's favorite foods. I ate robotically, not tasting any of the small portion I had on my plate.

"Why don't you get dressed and head to the cemetery?" Mrs. Hudson suggested gently. "Maybe take a shower and shave while you're at it."

"I don't want to go."

"John, I think it would be good for you."

"I don't want to go," I snapped. He left me. He betrayed me. If I went... It would be the final admittance of his death.

"Sherlock wouldn't have wanted you to act like this," Mrs. Hudson said as she got up and left the table.

What did she know? She didn't know him like I did. She didn't know what he would have wanted. I stood up and stormed down the hall. I didn't know what had occurred, but the next thing I knew, I was laying in _his_ bed, sobbing out every single thing I'd felt since he died. I eventually felt the need to hear his voice again. It wasn't the first time I'd felt that longing, but it was the first time that it overpowered me. I jumped off the bed, half blinded by tears as I searched under the bed for the phone.

When I found it, I climbed back weakly into the bed and unlocked the phone. He always thought his password was a secret, but I knew him better. It was the same as my own password. He never said so, but I was sure he knew. I found his recordings and pressed play on the most recent one.

I expected to hear his voice talking about one of his studies; tobacco powder, maybe. That was what he always recorded when I was around. But that wasn't what I heard.

The sound of wind was audible in the background. The intensity of it made me think it was recorded high on a building.

It couldn't be.

But it was.

I strained to hear the voices, clutching the phone tightly against my ear to try and stop the trembles. I listened quietly to the recording. It told me everything that had occurred on the roof top. Moriarty's plan, the proof that my disgraced friend was innocent, and the reason as to why he ended his life.

_"This is my note,"_ he had told me. And it was.

He hadn't died for nothing. He died to protect me. He gave his life so that I could live mine.

I hadn't been doing a very good job of it.

I played the recording over and over until I had cried myself to sleep.

That evening I awoke with a throbbing headache. I got out of Sherlock's bed and went to medicate myself. I found Mrs. Hudson sitting at the table, sipping a cup of coffee as she read a book. Her eyes swollen, indicating to me she had recently been crying.

"How are you doing?" she asked carefully.

"It was for us," I said mechanically. I couldn't feel anything. I was numb, aside from the pain in my head.

"What do you mean?"

"Moriarty threatened us. That's the only reason he jumped. It's the only reason he did it."

"How-"

"I found a recording on his phone." I took two Tylenol and got my coat, slipping his phone in my pocket. Molly had known this. She searched through the phone. Why hadn't she told the police to clear his name? Why hadn't she told _me?_

I was leaving Baker Street when my own phone rang. After stopping in my tracks and groaning in frustration, I pulled out my phone.

"What is it?" I answered shortly. I needed to see Molly. I needed answers.

"Are you alright there, Watson? I know what day it is."

"Who is this?"

"Lestrade-"

"I'm busy."

"I'm sure you are," he agreed gently. "Do you think you could spare me and hour or so? I need to talk to you."

"I'm not helping you with a case."

"That's not what I mean by talk, Watson," Lestrade replied. "There was a murder on Eversholt yesterday. It's connected to three other murders. We found your business card on the scene."

"I was home all day yesterday-"

"I believe you Watson. But it's still evidence, and evidence needs to be investigated. I'm sure you understand."

My best friend had made sure I knew that. "Can we do this later?"

"Watson, I'm sure whatever you're doing can wait. This is serious. You're a suspect in a mass murder case. Please, just meet me at your office."

"This is wasting my time," I said as I put my hand in my pocket, feeling for his phone. _I can clear his name_, I realized. "I'll meet you there in twenty minutes." I hung up my phone and turned around, heading in the opposite direction of Molly's flat.

I reached the clinic in fifteen minutes. Lastrade was waiting in my office with Donovan. They were both sitting in chairs in front of my desk.

"He's innocent," I said as I took a seat at my desk.

"Who's innocent?" Lestrade asked. "Shouldn't it be "I'm innocent"? We-"

"Sherlock Holmes. He's innocent."

"That's sweet of you to believe that," said Donovan. "But all the evidence points against him."

I put his phone on my desk. "Not this," I said. "The first recording has Moriarty's confession."

"Where did you get that?" Lestrade asked. "That's his phone is it not? That was stolen from the station before we could look through it for evidence!"

"Molly gave it to me," I answered slowly. "She said she'd been asked to look for evidence-"

"She's in _forensics_ for crying out loud! Why would we get her to look through it and not a trained professional!?"

Why had that never occurred to me? Even in my state after his death, I should have realized how ridiculous it sounded that she look through it and not someone at the station.

"I wasn't thinking properly at the time," I answered honestly. "I never realized-"

"Just- We'll discuss this later," Lestrade said with a frustrated sigh. "We need to talk about how your business card got to the crime scene."

"But-"

"I promise you we'll look through Sherlock's case again as soon as the murder gets cleared up promised Lestrade. "Just let us ask you some questions."

"Fine," I resigned. "But I swear-"

"As soon as the murders are cleared up. You have my word Watson," Lestrade promised. "As I said on the phone, your business card was found at the site of the most recent murder. Where were you yesterday?"

"I was at home. I've been there all week. This is the first time I've left the house in days. Mrs. Hudson can vouch for me. I didn't even know there _was_ a murder."

"Then explain how the card got there," said Donovan.

"_I _don't know! I didn't put it there though, that's certain," I answered. "Would it be possible to look at the card?"

Lestrade pulled a small bag out of the breast pocket of his jacket. It was one of my own with a smudge of lipstick in the corner. I stared at the smudge for a few seconds before realizing what the lipstick was and who it belonged to.

"I know that lipstick," I said as I logged into my computer. Impatiently, I searched up Heshmer Kolshol's file and opened it to show the duo. "Only one of my patients wears it. She comes in regularly, so I wouldn't be surprised that she carries my card with her."

"Print her profile," Donovan ordered. "I'll see what I can find on her."

Obeying her request, I printed off a copy and left the room to retrieve it from the printer.

"She doesn't exist," said Donovan when I returned. "The name is fake."

"Check the address," Lestrade said.

"Fake as well. They demolished the building 3 months ago. Watson, let us see that copy."

I sat back down at my desk and looked at the printed copy of her medical history. Then _who_ was Heshmer Kolshol? Could the name be an acronym? But what could it stand for? Or was it an anagram?

Taking out a pen, I tried to reorganize the letters. Maybe it was the fact that it was his anniversary, or maybe there'd been something telling me all along, but the first name I tried fit the letters perfectly.

Sherlock Holmes.

That bloody git. He'd been alive the whole time.

And it made perfect sense with the medical history.

Bruises on her back. He did jump off a bloody building.

The injured fingers from her violin strings. He played the violin.

Her hands. They were so familiar because they were his.

But if the address was fake then how could I find him? I didn't know his homeless network well enough to ask them, and there wasn't a good chance that they would know he was alive. I could confront Molly about it. If anyone knew, she- She'd been hiding him all along. Of _course_. He was living with her. Where else could he go? Aside from that, the clues were all there.

They both wore the same awful shade of lipstick.

They both had a pug.

Molly's garden was looking more proper than it had in all the time I'd known her.

She would have known his innocence.

And faking his death... Faking his body... What better person could help him but Molly?

And _of course_ he would still be out solving mysteries. It was just who he was. That had to be how the card got there.

"I have to go," I said, throwing the file on the desk.

"What- We aren't even-"

"Why is Sherlock Holmes written on the file?"

"It's an anagram," I said as I pulled on my jacket.

"But he's _dead_."

"I don't think so. Not anymore. I'll call you later," I said.

"John!"

I hailed a cab and gave the driver Molly's address, promising to pay him double if he got me there within 15 minutes. I didn't know if it was a slow day, or if he really needed the money, but whatever the reason, he got me there in 10. Throwing the promised amount in the front seat, I leapt out and rushed up to Molly's flat.

"Molly, let me in!" I exclaimed , pounding on the door with as much force as I could.

"Bloody hell John," she exclaimed when the door opened. I pushed passed her and stood in her small kitchen. "You'd think that someone was trying to murder you."

"Where is he?" I demanded.

"Who? What's going on?"

"Where is Sherlock?" I exclaimed, raising my voice. "I know he's alive and I know he's living with you. So tell me: Where. Is. He?"

"I'm really rather disappointed in how long it took for you to figure it out," a very familiar voice said behind me.

I spun around and there he was. Standing in all his glory was Sherlock Holmes. He looked just like I remembered, if not a little older.

"You _git!_" I exclaimed. "For the past year I've been living in absolute misery because I thought you were dead! You never contacted me! You never gave me any clues that you were alive! You made me live in _hell!_"

"But I have contacted you. I dressed up as the lovely Heshmer Kolshol to see how you were doing and you cannot say that I did not leave you plenty of clues when I was dressed up like her. And Molly got you drunk-"

"Don't bring me into this. It was your plan."

"I never knew you were alive Sherlock!" I exclaimed.

"Well, now that you do we can go back into business-"

"We are _not _talking about business Sherlock! We are not finished with this discussion!"

"What else is there to add?"

"How about the fact that I realized I had fallen in love with you and there was nothing I could do about it because _I thought you were dead!_" I exclaimed, grabbing his shirt collar and forcing his lips on mine.

"Well, this works too I suppose," Sherlock said dazed as I regained my breath.

"I'm so mad at you," I muttered, and I kissed him again.

"Please, just continue snogging in the middle of my apartment," I heard Molly mutter.

"Is there somewhere private we can go?" I asked him, pulling away.

"Molly didn't enjoy my violin very much. She soundproofed my bedroom."

"Perfect."


End file.
